My father has ventured to the bustling city to pursue his studies, and every evening, we gather around the telephone to speak with him. In my younger days, our little home was equipped with a humble telephone that served as a vital link to the world beyond our quaint village. It was our lifeline, connecting us to stories, news, and voices from far away, filling our hearts with a sense of adventure and possibility.
As I sat in the fields, planting seeds in the rich, dark soil, I often pondered what life was like outside the borders of our village. The whispers of the wind carried my thoughts beyond the mountains, stirring my curiosity about the places I had yet to see and the experiences that awaited me beyond the familiar sights of home.
I know you might be wondering how a three-year-old boy perceives the world, but for me, it's quite uncomfortable to live in close proximity to buffalos and other animals because of their dung. The strong smell and the mess they leave behind make it hard to enjoy the outdoors and the beauty of nature.
In a typical day of my ordinary family life, I found a sense of contentment that filled my moments with simple joys. Laughter echoed through our home, and the warmth of shared meals brought us closer together. Yet, as
I savored these fleeting moments, a sense of impending change lingered in the air, hinting that this serene happiness might soon come to an unexpected end.
As I told you before about my great-grandfather, he decided to take me to school. In our village, we have one government school and one private school. He intended to enroll me in the private school, where there is only one teacher. However, this teacher has a reputation for being quite intimidating, almost like a thug.
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There were no classes at this school until the third grade, which meant that students had to wait until they reached this level to begin their formal education and acquire the basic skills they would need for their academic journey.
As I sat in the dimly lit room, I couldn't help but feel a wave of fear wash over me. My great-grandfather sat quietly in a corner, a solemn figure witnessing an unsettling scene unfold. In the center of the room, a harsh-looking teacher loomed over a group of young children, no older than five, clutching a sturdy stick in his hand. The air was thick with tension as the teacher's voice cut through the silence, harsh and commanding. I recalled the frightened faces of the children, their wide eyes filled with a mix of confusion and fear as they flinched at every movement he made. The sight was terrifying for a young mind to absorb; it left an indelible mark on my memory, a chilling reminder of the vulnerability of those innocent souls.
He was teaching a group of five-year-old students the multiplication table of 12. How is that even possible? I can't help but feel a mix of excitement and fear about attending this school. It's a bit overwhelming!
Both the teacher and his wife were instructing in the charming old haveli-style homes that we own. These historical houses, dating back around 4 to 5 decades, have been transformed into a warm and welcoming school environment. Each structure carries its unique character and story, adding to the enriching atmosphere of learning they have created within these walls.
As we patiently awaited his arrival, he finally made his way to his office. With a warm smile, he greeted my great-grandfather, who was a figure of great esteem in the village. His presence commanded respect, and the air seemed to change as he entered the room, embodying the importance his status held among the community.
He then asked, "What is the purpose of your visit, Dada Ji?" addressing the old man with deep respect in his voice, as he sought to understand the reason behind his presence.
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