School always seemed boring and monotonous to Daksh. He had no friends, not because he was new or unknown, quite the opposite; it was because everyone knew him well. He was always like a wrong cog fit in a gear by an unknowing child. When all other parts moved perfectly well, he was the one who would not turn and neither cause any hindrance in the overall movement. Just an unwanted, unrelated, disjointed piece in an otherwise normally functioning mechanics. Daksh mostly remained quiet around his peers, in an eerie way, even when he was bullied, harassed or physically hit. There was nothing wrong with him, medically speaking. His brain growth was normal, in fact, he would always be amongst the top scorers in his age category. As a result, the school had no problem with his activities which were considered co-curricular, like making friends, doing team projects before the annual day celebrations or even the fact that he would often argue with the educators about a particular way a sum had been solved or the answer to a particular question. As far as the management was considered, Daksh was a sixteen-year-old boy, who was a genius with zero social skills.
The management had initially tried to reason with his father, that Daksh should be availed of special help for his social lacking, but the father had much bigger problems; trying to ensure none of his girlfriend met each other while he travelled the globe in his private jet, amassing enough money to last till Daksh’s grandchildren died living a lavish lifestyle.
Daksh excelled in Science, English, Math and found Geography and other Social Sciences to be extremely unnecessary for his growth and future. He would often read a novel hidden inside his atlas during the class of Mr. Rao, and would just as often be caught while doing it. What ensued as a result would hardly dent his future course of action. He would be made to stand and explain his behaviour to the class. “Please tell us boy, why should you not be punished for not paying attention, hmm?” and he would listen intently, trying to understand what his alleged misdemeanour was. “Because, sir, sitting here, in this class is punishment enough. I have tried listening to you explain the topic, but I do not think you are imparting any knowledge.” There would be a hushed giggle which was clearly audible in the class. Mr. Rao looking furious, yelling “Enough! You will come see the principal with me, right now.” The giggles would fade as nobody wanted to accompany them on that trip.
Mrs. Moitra was the only teacher Daksh would feel comfortable around. Someone who would see him as just another student, just another human. Mrs. Moitra taught fine arts and the classes would be spent mostly outdoors in the fields by the school, or near the greenhouse. Students could be seen carrying easels, canvas boards, buckets full of paint tubes and brushes back and forth from the main building to the annex quarters near the fields. Fine arts included painting, mural making, pottery, poetry, story writing et al, which according to Mrs. Moitra could not be excelled at by confining the brains in a small room. She would always walk with the students from the classroom to the fields, talking to them about an artist or a genre of art, about the little intricacies and detailing that made art great.
During one such painting class, which was being held at the path connecting the field to the greenhouse, Daksh felt for the first time that it was possible to talk about his own feelings with someone, without having to deal with nausea or self-loathing. Each student was supposed to complete their project entirely on their own. From carrying the easel and canvas board, selecting the equipment they would use, the ideation, the spot they would choose for their seat and so on. Mrs. Moitra would always say “Art is just as much as the thing you create, as it is the journey which leads you to that creation.” All the students had taken nice shady spots near the bases of the trees to set their workstations up. Daksh chose to sit at the far end of the path, beside the boundary wall of the greenhouse complex. His view was not of the fields, or the giant trees which towered around the greenhouse boundary, but that of the path overlooking the class which had stationed itself to view the best scenery their city had to offer. Mrs. Moitra went around observing each child at length, often providing help on how to use the particular brush, or how to chisel extra paint away. She would enquire about the motivation behind a particular tree a student was painting. She hovered around to where Daksh was perched and asked him why he chose the particular lonely corner, with just as much ease as she had asked everyone else.
“What you said earlier made me think. If the journey is also an extension of our art, then I want to capture that journey of the entire class.” Daksh replied without acknowledging Mrs. Moitra’s presence, like he was talking to her over a speaker phone; that her physical existence beside his own body made no difference.
Mrs. Moitra stood silently, perusing his palette and the colours he had chosen. There was a whole array of small little balls of bright orange, scarlet red, sunflower yellow, peach, turquoise, emerald green and two big boulders of navy blue and ash grey. His beaker had clean water and an eight-piece set of spatulas and three brushes of varying thickness, fully immersed inside the liquid.
“I did not expect you to be interested in knowing how your peers think.” Mrs. Moitra jokingly said, examining his face closely, watching out for any little twitch which might reveal his hurt or indifference to the quip. But Daksh did not fall for the trap, his eyes were still, scanning his bag for other tools he might require. “Neither did I.” Daksh replied, looking directly at Mrs. Moitra for the first time.
“Do you feel this class is important? That it will help you somehow? Or you think of it in the same light as Mr. Rao’s teachings?”, Mrs. Moitra knew she was reeling Daksh in. That somehow, she was starting to peel the exterior, and might get a peek inside this marvellous boy, whom she thought would grow up to do great things in whichever field of work he chooses.
“I like painting and carpentry. Honestly, I do not know if it will help me in the future in any way or not, but it definitely helps me to think clearly in the present.” Daksh replied, looking in the distance just above where the entire class was clustered.
“Yes. It has a similar effect on me.” Mrs. Moitra paused. “Do you hang any of the art that you create in your room or elsewhere in your home?”, she continued.
“Is it important to showcase your art? To seek validation for it?”
“We do not show it for some validation. We show it so other humans can look inside themselves through your art. Creating meaningful art is the biggest gift you can give to all humankind.”
Daksh sat motionless for a moment, absorbing this information and nodded silently. Mrs. Moitra moved on to the next student as Daksh started painting.
Mrs. Moitra was not like the other educators in the school. She would never mince words in front of the students about school policies or academic results. She believed, that students who would pass out of this institution as adults, should be told the truth and be helped to be better able to handle it. This was the reason why students respected her genuinely, and were afraid of her morbidly.
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Daksh sat waiting outside the principal’s office with his right hand bandaged near the wrist to curtail its movement. He was sunken deep on the bench, eyes closed and breathing deeply. A person who was never exposed to the magical world of meditation could have easily guessed that he was trying to calm his nerves. There was a deep red stain on his shirt just below the left shoulder. Daksh knew he was in big trouble this time.
Daksh was simply minding his own business, reading his novel during the lunch break near the basketball court when Aryan suddenly appeared from behind him and slapped the book out of his hand. “Why do you keep reading these novels, Dicks? Doesn’t your dad bring back enough drama after his ‘Business Trips’. By the way, your new mom-to-be looks sizzzzlingggg brooooo.” Aryan said while making a lewd facial expression. Daksh simply picked up his book from the ground and started walking towards the school building without even looking towards Aryan even once. This nonchalance made Aryan angrier than Daksh presently was. “Hey, running away as always? What a waste to be so rich but to be such a coward.” Daksh simply smirked and continued walking away from Aryan. “Go run back home and wear your dead mother’s bangles, Dicks. They must be gathering dust.” This last comment filled Daksh up with rage. He turned, smiled and casually walked up to Aryan, looked him straight in the eye and punched him on the nose with his right fist making Aryan lose his footing and almost falling on his back. Just then Daksh caught Aryan’s collar and rained a few more blows to the left of his head and cheeks making blood flow like a river from his nose and mouth. They were now surrounded by other students and Aryan landed on Daksh’s left shoulder, trying to hug him to make the beating stop and also to stop himself from falling. Daksh simply moved back a couple of steps and Aryan collapsed on the floor like a deflated balloon. All around, Daksh could hear students sighing and gasping and as he took a few more steps back, a few of the students came running to help their schoolmate up on his feet. Daksh left, holding his right hand, stretching and contracting his fingers in a fist.
Sitting at the waiting lounge outside the principal’s office, he was only trying to reason with himself that what he did was completely justified and there would be no reason to explain his actions to the school authority and probably to the police. He knew that Aryan was taken to the hospital as he needed stitches on his lips which the school infirmary was unable to perform. Aryan also had to be treated for concussion. As Daksh stepped inside the principal’s office, he was relieved to see the absence of any uniformed personnel. There was present, the principal, Mr. Ghosh, Mrs. Moitra and the teacher coordinator, Mrs. Singh.
After an hour of retelling the events of the day, Daksh walked out of the office completely drained of energy. He was sure they would try contacting his father, who was in Denmark presently, purchasing machinery for the plant. He was glad he would have some time alone as soon as he reached back home. In the corridor, students were whispering and covering their mouth while talking, like he cared in knowing what everyone was saying about him. He collected his belongings from his locker and went back home. He skipped school the next day and stayed indoors during the entire weekend. On Monday morning as he was getting ready for school, he got a phone call from Mrs. Moitra informing him that he was suspended till his father met the principal. To Daksh’s utmost surprise, after informing him of the school’s decision, Mrs. Moitra invited him to her house in the evening to talk to him about how he was feeling. Daksh did not have the faintest idea about how to respond and just stayed quiet for a few moments and then Mrs. Moitra said, “OK then, see you at half past four.”
Mrs. Moitra was not wearing a sari which was the only attire Daksh had ever seen her in. Instead, she was wearing a pair of denim and a loose shirt. She was very warm and welcoming and offered him a chilled glass of lemonade as she sat on the high-backed settee opposite Daksh.
“How is your hand now? Still paining” she asked while staring at his bandaged hand.
“It’s OK, thank you!”
“Did your father call you?”
Daksh was taken aback by this question because he had still not thought about this. About his father not even calling him up after he was informed about the incident. He remained quiet, staring at the floor.
“You can talk to me, Daksh.” She spoke with true compassion in her voice. “I know it must have been difficult growing up without a mother and with an absent father.”
“Yeah, somewhat!”
“Was your mother ill?”
Daksh shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. He had locked-up every memory of his mother in a dark room in his brain and had long lost the key to that door.
“Hale and hearty till her last breath.”
“Hmm. What happened to her, if you don’t mind answering?” asked Mrs. Moitra.
“An accident of sorts” replied Daksh, again moving uncomfortably in his chair.
“I’m really sorry. It must be dreadfully difficult to live in that house after all of it.”
“I have Shanti Maasi to take care of me. She’s really nice.”
“That’s good. Have you thought about your future? What you want to pursue after school.”
“Psychiatry from Cambridge” Daksh replied in an instant.
“They have the best course for it. That’s very good.”
Daksh remained silent. He wanted to know why he was summoned here; what was the reason behind this out-of-ordinary meet.
“Daksh, let me be honest with you. I am sure you will get admitted in the college of your liking, not because your father has connections in all the right places, but because you deserve a college of your choosing. I also believe that any college you attend, you will excel in their programme. What I am not sure is, how will you look after yourself?” Daksh cleared his throat but said nothing. He kept staring near Mrs. Moitra’s feet. “You will have to make friends, ask for favours, get outside your comfort zone every day.” Daksh knew where she was going with it. It was not like he was not capable of all the above things she mentioned. He was just not interested to do so here. Here, where everyone knew who he was, where everyone knew where he lived, where everyone knew what had happened in that house.
Daksh was eating breakfast at the dining table before leaving for school. Her mom hadn’t come down to bid him goodbye, which was most unusual, he felt. Shanti Maasi had toasted the bread and was heating the milk for him. “Where is mom?” he asked her and she just made a face that she didn’t know, shrugging her shoulders. “She was up till late” she said, adding it as a consolation for a candidly upset Daksh. “Is Papa back?” he asked Shanti Maasi and she nodded her head. “He is supposed to come back tomorrow night.” Daksh continued eating his breakfast, a little slowly than before. He got up and started walking upstairs to wake up his mom. The cook tried to reason that she must be sleepy and he can meet her after school. Daksh knew he was getting late but it would take just a minute to hug her and say goodbye.
Daksh knocked on the door and upon no answer he entered the room. The bed was still made from last night and he couldn’t see her mom anywhere. The room had a stale, pungent smell of cigarettes, alcohol and something funkier. He called out for her a couple of more times and then walked towards the washroom when he heard the tap running. Just as he was about to enter the washroom, his mother opened the door and came out, surprised to see Daskh standing there and wished him good morning. Her hair was nicely tied behind her head and she was wearing a robe above her night dress. She had a towel in her hand which she was using to wipe her face and he could see that her eyes were swollen and red. She was rubbing her upper lip and nose, trying to remove dry white flakes. “Will you come down with me? I am leaving for school.” “Of course, darling. I am sorry I am late. I didn’t realise what time it is. I love you.”
Daksh got called to the principal’s office during his second period. His cook, Shanti Maasi, was already sitting at the table, holding a handkerchief over her running nose and sobbing. His mom had allegedly decided to end her life 20 minutes after Daksh left for school. The police later informed that the victim’s post-mortem showed a large amount of cocaine in her blood stream and thirty tablets of anti-depressants in her stomach. Daksh was the last person she spoke to, her own blood and flesh. Her husband declined to comment to the press about her mental state and their married life. He buried every news about her suicide from leaking. Daksh was home-schooled for the rest of that year’s session and was admitted in a different school the next year. Now, finally he was about to leave this city.
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