“Miss”

by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty

[box]Anurag is deeply worried and is struggling to figure out what’s actually gone wrong with his life all of a sudden. Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty writes a gripping short story.[/box]

“My chest feels so heavy. I feel as if something is pressing against it with a blunt load. It is all because of her. Why did she do that? I really do not know. No, what is it that I did which made her do it? What is it that Vivek did that made her so happy? She even called me Anurag Dixit instead of just Anurag like she does on other days. I don’t understand.” These ponderings went on endlessly, even as the rest of his family went on cheerfully discussing something really funny which he felt too tired and too sad to pick up on.

“Anu, dear, anything wrong? Why don’t you eat? The food is getting cold! What’s again going through that big brain of yours?!” Mrs. Dixit cut into his thoughts. He felt very guilty. She was the only woman he had ever really known. As far back in his memory as when everything around him had started to settle into definite somethings. And, boy, did he love her! It was such a natural thing that it had never occurred to him in a conscious way. That is, until he had come to know her – the source of his ponderings, his sadness and his loss of appetite. He had first noticed her, last year, talking with some of his seniors and their families. Of course, back then, he was too busy with his friends, with the daily routine that had suddenly jolted his life from a peaceful, idyllic schedule into ritualistic runs – all nice, prim and proper, down to the curiously regimented lunch timings.  This year, however, was different. He had moved up, along with his friends. The ritualistic runs, though still in force, did not seem so bad, after all. He had even got used to the strict lunch timings. And there was Miss Neeta. He liked her. Really, really liked her. Also, everyone else seemed to like her. All his friends. Getting her personal attention seemed something of a contest. Nobody talked about it. But they were all zealously participating.

So, when, about two months back, Miss Neeta praised him, Anurag, in front of all his friends, it was definitely something. But, he soon realised that the contest was far from won. His friends were not going to give up so easily. Nor was he going to let go. He had tasted, before anyone else, that sweet taste of her approval. He wished he would do it again. He soon found out that he could. Even he did not know how exactly it was, but he had found a way to sense her pulse, her mood, and to read the silent expectations of that particular tilt of her head. He had to be on the watch always, of course, to favour the delicate balance of her precious approbation towards himself. This particular way of “earning”, although he never consciously thought of it that way, somebody’s attention, seemed to him eminently new and exciting. It was certainly different from the love and care he got and took for granted at home. And, probably it was because his own love, back home, was so “unrefreshingly” natural that for all the sensing of the pulses, the moods and the reading of the silent expectations he had recently learnt to wield so chivalrously for Miss Neeta, he simply had no inkling what to reply to Mrs. Dixit’s latest half-anxious queries. Thus, with the safe mumblings conferred by a grudgingly taken mouthful, he replied: “No, nothing.”

So, what was the malaise afflicting Mr. Anurag Dixit, who, it would seem, had discovered the invisible key into Miss Neeta’s treasured good books?

It was a month back. Anurag had been riding the triumphant wave of glory. Every word spoken by Miss Neeta resonated with him. For his part, he attuned every action of his own self, every word of every reply, every strategically interspersed smile to ensure that the preciously earned attention would be kept and maintained. But what knight is he who cannot sense the treading of his brethren? They who shared with him his daily routine, had fallen behind in the quest for the divine attention of Miss Neeta. But they too, it appeared to Anurag, seemed to have picked up a smattering of the unwritten, unspoken, yet sophisticated language in whose grammar he had so valiantly surged forward. It was in those circumstances that an epiphany struck him, just as he was about to start his lunch one day. He had noticed Miss Neeta meticulously working on an important looking register, her head tilted and resting between the index and thumb of her left hand. With a strange confidence that he had never felt at home, Anurag went up to her, and said: “Would you like to have a sandwich, Miss … ?” “Oh, Anurag, thank you so much. Sure.” In that very moment, with the master-stroke he had just played, he knew he had not just upped the ante; he had sealed the message that even if they all vied for her attention, it was only he who cared for her. No one else did. Not like him.

The sandwiches, of course, had been prepared by Mrs. Dixit. Anurag knew the dangers of upsetting her if he told her about what he had done at lunch. But, he could not bring himself to keeping “the sandwich episode” from her. Half-expecting a tirade that had often broken out at the dinner table for reasons far less benign than one full sandwich, he gingerly told her the truth. “Oh well, did she like it?” “I think so.” The danger so anti-climactically side-stepped, Anurag felt his taut, braced-for-a-tirade jaw, giving into a victorious silent smile.

Thus, it came to pass with the implicit blessings of the lunch-creator herself that Anurag started sharing his lunch with Miss Neeta, every day. He did not need to look at his brethren to know their vanquished quests; well, may be, except for a few furtive glances for a delicious dollop of silent gloating. This contest, after all, he had definitely won.

Or so he thought.

It was Vivek. He would not have been utterly crestfallen had it been Rajiv or even Nikhil. But, why was it Vivek who was offering to share his lunch with Miss Neeta?! Even that was not the problem. The problem, the great tragedy was Miss Neeta had accepted his offer. Not just accepted – she seemed positively delighted while accepting the offer from Vivek. It was absolutely unacceptable to Anurag. More so, inexplicable! What had he done wrong? Where was all the ground-work on Vivek’s part that he himself had laid for weeks? Had he been too blind in his own triumph not to have noticed what they, his friends, were up to? Such profound deliberations went on for the rest of the day, bringing us to the point at the dinner table where Anurag, with that grudging mouthful, mumbled his way away from the truth. What was he to do, after all? Surely, there was no way he could tell Mrs. Dixit that he had been sharing his lunch with Miss Neeta every day. One full sandwich was the best he could get away with.

The next day, Anurag felt that hurried tiresome rush of the ritualistic run he had long forgotten. Yet, at the same time, he found himself hungrily looking forward on a full stomach – again, courtesy, the doting, natural, anxious care of Mrs. Dixit – to what would unwrap during lunch time. He did not have to wait that long. Half-an-hour before lunch, he had to hear from the very lips of Miss Neeta, words that he never imagined would befall him; him – he who had sensed and learnt to attune himself to the most minute detail of her voice, her mood and her expectations, he who had so rapturously listened with devoted attention for the jubilant joy of those momentous moments when she would shower her undivided attention solely upon him, elevating him, as he had felt, over his brethren, over all the Viveks, the Rajivs and the Nikhils. But those words spoken that day were nothing short of outright disapproval! How had he let this come to pass? It was one thing for her to cheerfully share Vivek’s lunch, even to call him Anurag Dixit, even not to positively shower approbations – but this? There was no way he would offer her his lunch half-an-hour later.

He sat throughout lunch, seething with the rage of “uncried” screams. The best vent he found for that rage was to stab into the packed sandwiches (ah, sandwiches again!) mashing each bite even as his chest heaved and he fought back what he would never admit as tears. Strangely, all that concentrated stabbing and mashing (perhaps spiced with the heightened emotion, too!) brought out the taste of the sandwich like Anurag had never felt before. His attention went back to the creator of those sandwiches, the naturally caring Mrs. Dixit, she whose love he knew for granted was his. And, suddenly, he could not wait to get back to her. The rest of the daily routine that he had come to share with his friends went by in a daze of impatient waiting and a defiant disregard for every word and movement of Miss Neeta.

He ran out, his eyes frantically searching for Mrs Dixit. Finally! All will be well now. He lurched forward, and wrapped his arms around her. Something inside his chest broke free of tortured restraints, and with a voice broken with guilt, love and the pangs of a thousand hitherto unfelt feelings, he mumbled through his streaming tears: “Ma, I am very, very sorry.”

“What happened? Why are you crying like this? Are you hurt? Did you fall down from the swings again? Let me see. Tell me. What’s wrong?”

And Anurag poured forth in a curious slush of tears, snobs and sniffs – which only his mother could fully decipher – the entire saga of the sandwich, explaining how he hadn’t told her about it because he feared she would be angry with him for not eating his full tiffin, finally ending with an angst-ridden full-throated: “I promise I will never never ever share anything with Miss again. I hate her, Ma. I hate her. I will never give her anything from now on.” His mother realised that the world had finally caught up with that bundle of joy she had brought into the world seven years ago. She also knew better than to leave that at that.

So, there it was – Mother and Son walking into Class KG-B, the battleground of the epic saga. Setting aside her grown-up bundle of “joy”, she said a few somethings to Miss Neeta. Anurag couldn’t understand that confusing mix of words, of course, but soon saw both the ladies coming towards him with strange smiles – the ways of the grown-ups, huh! He looked down – mind you, only looked down, not hung his head; after all, what had he to be ashamed of! – to avert his gaze from his class teacher. Miss Neeta came up and knelt in front of him, like his mother did every morning while tying his little neck-tie, and with all the personal attention he wouldn’t know what to do with until yesterday morning, said: “Anurag, are you really angry with me? Come now! You know, I like you very much. I like all of you. Especially the ones, like you, who are attentive in class and who do their homework always. I am proud of you. I was not angry with you today. I just told you to look into the book we were reading in class. You had been looking at Vivek all throughout class, instead of your books.” Those words sparked a guilt that spread like wildfire inside his chest. Of course he had been looking at Vivek the entire morning to see what special thing he would do to get their teacher’s attention. Suddenly, he realised that he did not know very well, unlike other days, which pages had been covered in class today. He sniffed back, slightly ashamed this time.

Miss Neeta stood up. And, if only we could ask Anurag to brace himself, for magic was about to happen – wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him a loving, caring hug. Taken aback for a few moments, he slowly let himself sink into the folds of her saree. Shame, pride, guilt and a new-found wisdom, of course, ensured that he did not hug her back like he had hugged his mother.

“And, oh Anurag, I do remember you were the first one to share your lunch with me.”

Whither tears! What pride! Let the world do the catching up later! For now, Anurag gave in, and hugged his dear “Miss”, even as his mother saw the joy return to her bundle.

——-

Dedicated to all the lady teachers of junior school, who cared enough to love! And, in particular, to one “Miss” with whom, I promised Ma, I would never share my lunch again.

——-

Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty is doing his PhD at IIT Kharagpur in Microfluidics and Nanofluidics, specifically theoretical Electrokinetics, after obtaining an Integrated Degree of B.Tech and M.Tech in Mechanical Engineering from the same place in 2009. Jeevan believes that in science and technology, it takes a lifetime of effort and discipline to be really creative within the rules, and genius to bend those or form new ones. As a welcome break from that discipline, he finds that in literature, creativity comes with ease and with the immediate gratification of momentary inspiration. Even in this paradise of carefree thoughts, he loves the wacky and the improbable. He adores delightful twists, clever word-plays and ideas which turn conventional wisdom on its head.

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