The Curious Kid: The Angry 90's Kid

The Angry 90’s Kid

1999.

The world was a very different place then.

I had just completed my Lower Kindergarten (LKG) in Bethlehem Primary School, a small school 3 kilometres away from my home. My parents wanted to put me in another school, which was just a few meters away from Bethlehem – Loyola. For them, it was a better option; however, for me, it was a different world altogether and I was in no mood to leave Bethlehem.

Other than the obvious reason of not wanting to come out of the comfort zone of a familiar habitat, there were two particular memories from Bethlehem that I hold responsible for my reluctance to leave the place.

'The Happy Bethlehem Kid'

One. The winter of 1998.

Given that Bethlehem was a convent school, Christmas used to be celebrated grandly. On the last working day, before the school closed for Christmas holidays, we celebrated Christmas. A tableau of the nativity scene was staged in front of the school and I was to take the role of baby Jesus, being one of the smallest kids in the school. Dressed in white and an ample amount of make-up on my face, I was the centre of attraction of the day. Students, teachers and parents waited in a queue to catch a glimpse of the baby Jesus and co. My parents and a few of our relatives too came to see their baby devil. Smiles, attention, camera flashes and fun; needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed the day.

Jesus and Co.

Two. The summer of 1999.

We were on our way back home after the annual visit to our native place – Kottayam. Every summer vacation, we would go to visit our relatives and spend a few days there. The return journeys were always painful, after all the fun and frolic with my cousins.

I was sitting by the window in a general compartment of our very own Venad Express. The wind caressed my hair and I was lost in thoughts. It was then that my parents met an acquaintance of theirs on the train and soon I was called to meet this lady and introduce myself. The typical questions that were thrown at 90’s kids, and for which we had ready-made answers, came to me from her. “What’s your name? Which class are you studying in? Which school? Who is your best friend?” I blurted out the replies to all those questions, when an unusual question was thrown at me – “why is she your best friend?”. I did not need time to think though. For, kids don’t think much; they don’t worry about the consequences of what they say. And I said, “because, she is beautiful.” Let’s not worry about defining ‘beauty’ or ‘friendship’ here. After all, our protagonist is a five-year-old kid who is ‘innocent’. Anyways, I was very fond of her.

So, this Christmas of 1998 and ‘she’ were two possible reasons that rooted me to Bethlehem.

However, parents have their ways, don’t they? I was assured that I wouldn’t be taken out of Bethlehem against my wish. Along with assurance, it was suggested that we visit this other school. “What’s the harm in a casual visit,” and I readily agreed. So one fine Sunday, we went to Loyola. It was a huge campus with buildings ten times the size of our little Bethlehem, vast playgrounds and a fish pond – none of which impressed me. So when the question was asked again – “do you want to join this school?” – as always, I did not need to think much. It was a plain “no”. It was then that my father brought out the trump card. “You know what, behind that huge building is a playground for kids. And there they have a toy train, like the one at the zoo children’s park. You know, your favourite one!”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Can I see that?”

“Of course, you can also go on rides, after you join this school.”

“Hmmm?”

“So would you like to join this school?”

“Maybe.”

Thus, my innocence was exploited. Bethlehem and ‘she’ were to become memories.

***

As part of the admission formalities, we had to get passport-sized photos of mine. As we walked into the darkness of Ogeena Studio, the little toy train of Loyola School was taking jolly rides inside my head. There was a dressing table in one corner of the studio room and I sat there as my father applied talcum powder on my face and combed my hair, both of which I had an aversion to those days (and the former to this day). I kept pushing his hand away, and he lost his cool soon enough. Like father, like son, I too lost my cool.

The photographer kept asking me to cheer up and smile. He even asked my father to go out of the room. I did try my best to smile. In fact, after a point of time, I wondered what was wrong with the photographer, “can’t he see that I’m smiling?”

“Onnu chirik monee… (please smile little one…),” he said, one last time before the lights flashed and a couple of ‘click’ sounds were heard.

The processing was done, and we got the photos after a week.

I do not know how they felt submitting the application form with this photo on it.

It doesn’t matter though. After all, it was sweet revenge.