How a backpack helped a classroom of 7 year olds overcome their fear of an abusive school teacher.

I couldn’t see what
the fuss was
about.

Honestly, I tried.
I did.

But it was
just
a
bag.

The all-boys class had
gathered around
Aiman’s
new
Samsonite backpack
and
he stood above it
beaming
like someone who would
one day
tell anyone who was
willing to listen
how his new BMW
was better than
anything on the market
while
his wife underwent
a
C-Section.

Which is odd to think
because
if I had to go by
appearances
which I was taught
never to do
I would’ve picked
Aiman’s future
TED talk
to be on
the most efficient ways of
breaking into
locked cars.

The bag did look
good
though.

Strong.
Rugged.
Masculine.

It was the
Robocop
equivalent of
school bags,
in a shade of
onyx.

But when did
Good
become
Great?

I would know this feeling
next
when everyone
was hypnotized
by
The Da Vinci Code.

For others
it was
the unexpected
success of
Slumdog Millionaire.

“AAAAAAAAAH!!!”

You know the sound someone
makes when faced
with
surprise trauma?

For the students of
Class 2 C,
this was the arrival of
Mrs. D’Costa.

A stampede
followed as
everyone
scampered to their
seats.

With his spotlight
snatched prematurely
from him
Aiman and his bag
were
put in their
respective
places.

Mrs. D’Costa had a
daughter
who was
a year older
than us
and wore
floral summer dresses
and had
dimples
and when she
smiled at you
you silently
thanked
your parents
for choosing
St. Xavier’s.

But this is
not about
the good
that Mrs. D’Costa
did for this
world.

Besides,
her daughter
hadn’t come along
today.

Which meant the
skies
were greyer
than usual
for us.

It was a Moral Science
Class and
we were
studying the
underdog’s tale of
David and Goliath.

“SHINTO! Where is your textbook?!”

Uh-Oh.
Shinto,
where
the hell
is your
textbook?!

Shinto
burrowed
through
the insides
of his bag.

He even opened up and
ran his fingers through
the top pocket
in the front
which was
big enough
to hold
a
toothbrush.
Praying
for a
miracle.

No textbook.
No miracles today.

Shinto looked up
at Mrs. D’Costa.
And
GULPED.

Death row prisoners
have looked
less
remorseful.

Maybe it was his shorts.

Shinto was the
smallest boy
in the class
and wore
the
longest shorts
which made him
look even more
pint-sized.

In fact,
he looked like
a constable
during the
British Raj.

Perhaps
his fate
might have been
kinder during
the British Raj.

His most
peculiar quality
though
was his
ear wax.

He had
fluorescent green
ear wax.

My mother
never
believed me
when
I told her
about it.

And I told her about it
repeatedly.

She thought I was
exaggerating.
Obviously.

On the last
Parent-Teacher Meeting,
I forced her to
stand
closer
to Shinto’s family
so she could
see Shinto’s
now famous
ear wax.

And she did.

It was almost
glowing. Like it was
radioactive.

That day,
for the first time
in the seven years
I had known
my mother,
she was
speechless.

“Even yesterday you didn’t bring your text book!”

CRAP!
Shinto was
a
repeat offender.

We knew
what
that meant.

And out
it came.

The steel ruler.

Mrs. D’Costa had
two long rulers.

A wooden one
for when
you
first faltered.

A steel one
for the more
thick-skulled
among us.

“Show me your hand. SHOW ME!”

Shinto
lifted
his hand.

“Make a fist.”

Shinto
complied.

He was
trembling.

Mrs. D’Costa
raised her
ruler like a
whip and

THHHHHHIIIIDDDDDHHHHHTT!!!!!

An
electric bolt
zapped through
our spines.

The sound of
Cold Hard Metal
on a
child’s
knuckles
rings in the
air
longer
than it should.

Shinto’s face was
quivering.

His eyes
welled up.

“Aye! Don’t cry! Make a FIST!”

With a twitchy
arm and a
hand with
white knuckles,
Shinto complied.

We couldn’t
look.

But the
sound
still
came.

Mrs. D’Costa’s
second serving.
For emphasis.

Only after
we heard her place
her ruler on
her table
did we
look
back up.

Shinto had
hot tears
running
down
his face.

His nose
was leaking.

He had
taken
the hit
but
the pain
was
ours.

As Shinto
retreated
to his
seat
his shoulders
slumped
his spirit
broken
another teacher
was at
the door.

There was a quick
teachers’ meeting at
the
Principal’s office.

Mrs. D’Costa
got up
and
walked to the
door
when
her foot
got caught in
something and-

-Have you seen
the statue of
Saddam Hussein
being
pulled down?

She didn’t
bend.
Her towering
body
lurched
forwards and
downwards and
a
second later
her face
was
on
someone’s
after-school
kit bag.

Her arms were still
at her
sides.

When you see
someone
horizontally
you can
never see them
the same way
again.

Lions avoid
hunting
an adult
elephant
but when they do
they must bring it
down to one
side.

“UNNNNNHHHHHHH!!!”

Right. She was
still here.

The other teacher
rushed
to help
Mrs. D’Costa up.

None of us
even
moved.

As she sat up,
she dislodged
her foot
from the
offending object.

It was Aiman’s
Samsonite Backpack.

She let out a
gasp of
disgust.

As she left for
the
Principal’s meeting,
we looked
at
one another.

I can’t say
for sure
but I have
a feeling
we were all
thinking
the same thing.

Marching
around the
entire school,
with Aiman’s
Samsonite Backpack
hoisted high
on our shoulders.

“SAMSONITE!”

“SAMSONITE!”

“SAMSONITE!”

“SAMSONITE!”

But that would’ve
required the appropriate
fanfare and
the music room was
locked.

Plus, none of us
had ever
played any
drums or a
trumpet
before.

At least that’s
why
I think
we didn’t do our
Samsonite parade.

Something did
change
that day
though.

Mrs. D’Costa
continued
wielding
her
dual-rulers
but
no one
in Class 2-C
Ever
Cried
Again.

Not even
Shinto.

We had seen
the beast
being brought
down
to her
knees
by a
school bag.

And now
we knew.

She was
only
human.