Yavanika

I first saw her talking to Garv. The first sight was cut short by teacher’s entry in the classroom. I became more and more restive as one teacher after another tormented us. Finally, Chowkidaar rang the interval bell and I caught up with Garv to know more about her.

It was her first day in our school. Her family knew Garv’s family. I thought of requesting Garv to introduce me to her; on second thoughts I decided against this. Another bell announced the end of interval and we went to classroom for another round of lessons. The teachers were hell-bent on earning what they were paid and didn’t give breaks. I couldn’t say hello to her that day.

The lull continued for many days. I failed to exchange even a smile with her. To my consternation, I saw classmates who were not known to be communicative on anything from Ashoka to Ohm’s law, share jokes effortlessly with her. I reassured myself that this was temporary. Sooner than later, I would take my rightful place as the sole object of her affection. In the meantime, I indulged myself with her thoughts and promised to make a dashing entry in her life. I couldn’t stop thinking about the silky hair that fell casually on her slim shoulders, her dimpled smile, tall silhouette and that innocent face whose appeal was increased manifold by those glasses. I don’t know if it is because of her, but my love for girls who wear glasses continues to this day.

The dashing entry failed to materialize. I hate to admit, but I can’t even remember how we got introduced to each other. Maybe, she borrowed some notebook, perhaps I made a casual remark, or did she join in the laughter after someone cracked a joke. Whatever!! We got on friendly terms and started talking on everything in the text books. I’ve never been known as someone who indulges in inanities; so the vanity space continued to be occupied by those who invariably failed to get their father’s signature on the report card. To each one his own life!! I couldn’t have ‘stooped’ to their level and discussed the latest movie or ice-cream flavour with her.

She managed to stay in the top 10 and her only distinction from ‘uncommunicative’ bunch was her out of box thinking and excellent understanding of stories. When rest of us laboured to find the meanings of difficult words, she would discuss the moral of the story with the teacher. One day, she was discussing philosophy with our Hindi teacher. She argued that Ramayana is a fable, a fine story woven around a great character called Ram. She even used her compass to draw a circle and pointed to centre as Ram and circle as Ramayana. I couldn’t disagree more. Blasphemy is not pronounceable when you are 12, but religion is.

The results of 6th standard were announced and I got 3rd rank, she managed to keep within 10 as well.


I delivered a fantastic speech on Independence Day. The principal, Mr. Bakth shook hands with me and I carried home the award. I knew I had arrived.

We were on very friendly terms. She loved debating and was likely to be found discussing some weird topic with weirder boys. The boys with their mouths half open were all ears, or were it all eyes. Whatever the reality, I used to sneak in these discussions sometimes and drop a few clever sounding, pre-meditated sentences to make my presence felt. My ego massaged, I would return to my friends. How can one continue debating without throwing punches when the topic is “Does God exists”?

She wanted to give the speech on Republic Day, I was not game. Before the English teacher could convince me to back down from my principled stand, I had my speech ready. She convinced the management that two students delivering the speech are within the confines of our constitution.

On the fateful day, I stuttered, stammered and forgot my lines, it couldn’t have been worse. On the other hand, she spoke like a seasoned orator - the pauses, paragraph breaks and stresses, all at the right places, everything worked according to the script. This time she earned the privilege of shaking hands with Mr. Bakth.

I was crest-fallen. I was so annoyed that I didn’t even congratulate her. The loss brought out the worst part of my character; I did not talk to her for two days. We never mentioned the subject after I came out of ‘mourning’ .We resumed conversation on the interesting topics like Mitochondria and Harappa.

I really enjoyed my duties as a prefect. Under the pretext of making the queues straight, I used to stare at her for extended periods.

Few months after the R-Day debacle, she wished me on my birthday and thrust a packet in my unsuspecting hands. One shouldn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. I’ve never had so many people punching me in the abs and smiling suggestively. The envelope had a pack of Cadbury’s Gems and greeting card. Interestingly, the card had the image of a hand resting on a partition. The nails were painted bright red and nothing was written inside. Not even the innocuous “Happy Birthday”.

I could not get even with her on the next Independence Day. We moved to different schools when we passed 7th standard. I stood 1st in the class; she managed to stay in the top 10.

I’ve graduated from ‘adarak’ tea to ‘Baccardi lemon’ and forgotten the names of most of our classmates. I do remember that she had started writing poetry in Hindi. I remember the title, Yavanika – “yauvan ki rani” literally the queen of youth. I’ve never checked if the world really means the queen of youth. I’ve never heard anything about her. I’ve never asked anyone what those painted nails or empty card mean?

The card and the empty packet of Gems is still with me.