AN UNREMARKABLE DAY IN THE LIFE OF JANKOJI HOUSE HM

 It is 5.30am in the morning. 3/4^th of the world is in deep slumber. Not mine! My world is alive and kicking. Between pushing an unwilling dog out of the house and waking up two unwilling kids, I rush to make tea and while the tea is boiling, I do my breathing exercises( I need an overdose of oxygen to last me the whole day). After fixing up the breakfast, I rush to take a quick bath since it is already 6.30.

 Knock, knock, knock. I rush to open the door. ‘Who’s there?’’ Aditya’. ‘Aditya who?’ ‘Adityavardhan Shukla’(there are four Adityas in my house). Three indignant looking pre-teens are standing at my door. ‘Ma’am he called me Shukla –dukla’. I chide the offender who is   sheepishly standing at the back. I have a sniggering doubt that he is trying to suppress his smile. No time for any more rebuke. I rush in. A hurried bath and I am ready for the morning roll call. After the inspection, 35 pairs of hands rush to touch my feet. With 20 ‘god bless you’ , I take the support of the table behind me for balance.

I gingerly touch my new car. The dash board resembles that of an airplane. Blue light at the brakes makes me nervous. I feel claustrophobic with the power windows and central-locking system and a sensor for reverse gear. They seem to have a mind of their own. I distrust intelligent machines (Comes out of watching too many science fiction movies). I start the car, all the while missing my simple creaky old one. 30 seconds into the drive and my windows lock in. The one mile journey ends. Thank God, the car did not take off. But the key refuses to come out of the ignition. I panic (Comes out of reading too many newspapers). I look around and see no one. I estimate the time in which all the oxygen will finish inside the car. I see the bus driver and wave at him. He opens my door and takes the key out. I feel foolish.

By the time I head to the dining hall, JN boys have started coming out. I try to stay out of the sight of DSWD. He still spots me.

Assembly is the time to catch a breath and I do so with deep breathes. The boy at the back turns his head look at me. I give up trying to nourish my lungs.

After two periods of class in the Science block, I am heading back to the main building. The teacher’s lounge with its two split ACs beckons me.HM of Nimaji house is walking ahead of me. I see the telephone booth guy with a 50 rupee note in his hand and an indignant expression on his face. He is followed by a sheepish Pratham of JN house. Sensing trouble, I turn to go back, but I am spotted. ‘Talk to his HM’, she says pointing at me. The phone booth guy tells me Pratham offered him the money to let him call his parents. And I thought JN troubles will not follow me to the school. I call up the father and question him about the wisdom of giving his son ‘black money’. He is apologetic.

Another class; I give a quiz on chemical symbols. Harshit thinks that students will cheat since I have not done any special seating arrangement.I tell him that I trust everybody not to cheat. If they do so it is their problem, not mine. I will not stop trusting. Not a single child lifts his head from the paper during the test.

My ride back to the house is uneventful. The moment I apply the brakes, I am surrounded by a bevy of agitated Jankojians. Between the chorus of how Varun ate only one chapati in the dining hall or how Pratham was reprimanded by Rakhi Ma’am or Harshit skipped the breakfast, I don the mantle of a judge and a counsel. An agitated Hardik informs that Aditya Ranjan is missing. Everybody goes on a searching spree. And when I think I am on the brink of having a heart seizure, Hardik remembers .Aditya Ranjan has gone to the Health Centre because he had the nosebleed during the school hours. I glare at Hardik.

By the time I reach my door, the phone rings. Ritvik’s mother is wanting to know if Ritvik is OK. By the time I end the conversation it rings again (my days of afternoon siesta/ beauty sleep are far behind me) .The evening brings Astachal, prep and dinner duties.

9pm.After the roll call, I sit down to edit the story written by Hiteshwar for ‘Footprints’. Hiteshwar, I am sure will grow up to become a novelist because he writes stories which never end. He has this irritating habit of writing, ‘to be continued’ at the end of each story. I forced him to kill the hero ‘Johny Flame’ of his story and in his ire, he did that very abruptly. I give a new lease of life to Johny Flame and impart some solemnity to his death.

I peep out of the mesh door. My two friends- the owls are perched on the ceiling fan of the verandah. One of them rotates his head clockwise to glare at me. I wave. The quiet owls are my soul birds. The wise owl sees all but says nothing.

I go for a last round in the dormitory. Children are getting their uniforms ready. Another barrage of grievances follows. And when I tell the kids about my article for the review about Jankoji house, everybody wants their name to be put in it. And when I narrate the beginning, everybody laughs which brings the Matron into the dormitory. I leave.

By the time I enter my home, tidy up the kitchen, tie up the clothes to be ironed and put dirty laundry in the washing machine, my kids are fast asleep. I will talk to them tomorrow.

11pm. My head hits the pillow. Spondylitis has denied me the simple pleasure of reading in the bed. Tomorrow holds the promise. Tomorrow will be another beautiful day.

Niharika Kulshresth