Chapter One
To be brutal, I always felt a little immune to the whole first day-of-school
butterflies. It’s not the last first day of everything and not that humanity is going to
be crippled by a catastrophic zombie apocalypse, hopefully. I am just saving my
adrenaline some extra effort. Not that I have a very awe-deserving life though, but
I presume my adrenaline soon will run into an existential crisis. It’s just a matter of
gamble as to how soon is that.
Now, I do love to empty my parents’ wallets with all the new books and bags and
diamond worthy Tupperware lunchboxes per se, because here's the deal, I believe
in saving money and conserving resources and all that fancy activist stuff only if I
have any, which puts forward recollections of every literal dinner table
conversation at my house back in sixth grade, starting with me protesting for some
monthly allowance and ending with my parents blaming cartoon creators and
interactive movie makers for converting homely kids into rebels. I did love
cartoons back then, so; OUCH. At that point I wished I was the roasted prawns I
was eating. Those bastards were lucky, for its only me and my sister who can
master the art of pretending to heed to my parents’ life lessons and still have the
audacity to exist in an atomic state with four functioning heart chambers. We
deserve a Nobel prize. That is one street I do not want to go down ever again,
unless I were on my deathbed and a conference with the grim reaper was either
way inevitable. Another street I hate to go down to, the one leading to the bus stop.
It is an utter delight to witness female dogs in the body of middle-aged ladies cross
my neighborhood, on my way. Science sure is progressing.
I am not in any humane sense, in the epicenter of this inhumane hurrah known as a
classroom, and that is one thing I thank the almighty for. Amidst my peaceful
existence, a dull but soothing voice from the scruff of my neck whispers,’’ Salim
Sylvester, long time no see.’’ That happens to be my unfortunate, heavily extrovert
best friend. Seeing him in the madness room gave me the indemnity of survival for
the following 6 hours, yet I will cross my fingers on that. Rohan was caught up
staring at some random guy from an isolated hemisphere of the class, which gave
me assurance that was all locked and loaded to burst out bullets from the pistols he
bought in exchange of his eyes. His intent was romantic for the record. I had to
shake him off his fairyland to put his muscular arms to use and toss me from my
wheelchair to the class bench.
Two years ago, eighth grade, humungous accident,
magnanimously lengthy surgery, partial loss of ability to walk. That’s what I tell
everyone, be it who care parallel to the excretion of an ant or who care the puke of
a whale as to what happened, I do not like to talk much about what happened. I
talked enough of it in the past two years.
So far, the day was going decent, not to mention it’s only been quarter of an hour. I
get to some reading after scolding Rohan for calling me by my last name. not that I
am disgusted by my last name or by being part catholic and part Muslim. I just like
my individuality to a given extent, which doesn’t exclude name related stuff.
Though I do hate a lot of Sunday’s where I either have early morning chapel at the
holy trinity with mom or visits with dad to Nizamuddin dargah.
I must say I don’t really fit the stereotype of coming from a diversely orthodox
family, nor do I fit the mold of a partially paralyzed teenager. Who am I kidding?
There is no potential mold for paralysis. Its just a real bore occasionally.
Correction; always a bore.
I always believed that we cannot really know what a person is feeling lest we put
ourselves in his Shoes. That’s my way of showing pity towards the Jews and the
holocaust victims whenever our homeroom teacher enters the class. She plays a
fine Adolf.
