The Head Boy

 -------------------------------------------------

Please get an ebook of my novel, "IVORY IMPRINT", by visiting the Amazon portal at https://amzn.in/d/42T5Qmu

Please get a paperback copy of my novel "Ivory Imprint" , by visiting the Amazon portal at the link https://amzn.in/d/69KH5qc

--------------------------------------------------

The Head Boy

It was late evening as Mayank doubled back to the guesthouse. Aarohan was fast asleep, and Mayank welcomed such tides of restful sleep to sweep his friend. Just a good night’s rest could bring him lucidity to this extent—he spoke three words or, to be precise, two sentences. However, on second thoughts, Mayank began to feel alarmed. A nap at midday should not stretch up until late evening. He decided to see it himself.

It was pitch dark inside as Mayank entered the room. Not a chink of light filtered through its thick window curtains. For some light, he had to fumble for the switch panel. When he turned on the light, he found Aarohan lying on the floor like a tired child after a tantrum. It was as funny as alarming, and for a split second, he feared the worst. He went near him to feel his forehead. It was as cool as a melon.

‘What’s with you, Aarohan? Why are you lying on the floor?’

‘It’s cool’ was Aarohan’s reply. Clearly, he would need some time to shake off his drowsiness.

Mayank did not know how to react. Thankfully, the worst had not occurred, and he delivered a clear sentence, too.

‘By the way, could you recall anything, Aarohan? How did you get to this remote place?’ enquired Mayank.

‘Aarohan, who is Aarohan?’ he asked, now fully awake. His face, especially his furrowed brow, indicated he was genuinely seeking clarification, not pretending.

‘You’re Aarohan, and I’m Mayank. Old friends, you know,’ Mayank said as he did in the morning. Aarohan nodded inanely, conveying the same monosyllabic reply: no idea, me-no-idea.

Mayank let out a sigh of disappointment.

‘I just had a dream,’ Aarohan announced, sending Mayank into a whirl of curiosity and pleasant anticipation.

Could a dream be helpful in Aarohan’s case? Mayank, driven by curiosity, explored a new dimension. First, he wanted to understand what Aarohan meant by 'dream'. Every thoughtful individual dreams; they are as numerous as the flashes of lightning in the sky. They happen randomly, interrupt sequences, change contexts suddenly, and turn characters into impossible forms, defying cultural norms. Like unexpected visitors, dreams invade our waking hours, often stirring regret. Yet, amidst this chaotic dance of the subconscious, Mayank saw untapped potential. He saw the power of dreams to fill memory gaps and reveal hidden insights, opening the door to an irrational but profound world. Moving away from his logical perspective, Mayank now dared to explore the treasure troves of the dream world.

Aarohan began to relate his dream as if reading from a storybook.

***      ***      ***      ***

It was Monday, August 14th, 1972. Come the 15th, history would unveil its momentous tapestry. The vehicle of time, carrying us passengers, was all set to leave another milestone behind. We, the proud citizens of the world’s largest democracy, were on the verge of celebrating our 25th Independence Day—the Silver Jubilee. It was a moment for all of us to engage in profound introspection. The largest democracy: not for nothing, the sobriquet was applied to a developing country like ours. Even our detractors had come to acknowledge it! Ergo, a grand celebration was on the horizon, commencing with the crack of dawn. Government offices and institutions would showcase their achievements during these challenging and transformative twenty-five years.

As an eleven-year-old boy, I already understood what Independence Day signified. It arrived once a year when we took part in a morning procession, or prabhatpheri as it was called, to herald the arrival of the day of glory. Featuring a march-past with slogans, it did not replicate a military parade. Nevertheless, it was to commemorate a victory meriting public celebration. The prevailing ethos was ahimsa, which loudly proclaimed that freedom had come to us without bloodshed. There was a tinge of piousness in the celebration, though, with the entire setup resembling sacred morning prayers. Come to think of it, the prabhatpheri was both spiritual and mundane, and it truly reflected the zeitgeist of the 1970s.

Wading through the inundated village lanes, with water barely reaching our ankles, we humbly begged alms of love from the villagers, hoping for some sweet treats like lozenges at the end. However, to our disappointment, our teachers often appropriated the rice offerings we collected, leaving us with only the fleeting joy of the processions. It has been years since our primary-school days, yet the melodies of those patriotic songs still echo in my ears. How beautifully the patriotic people of India celebrated the courage of Gandhi, the revered father of the nation! ‘You alone have bestowed the gifts of peace, progress, and liberty/oh Gandhi, the eternal beacon of beauty.’

However, the following day would be a special Independence Day, marking the grand Silver Jubilee. There was so much to celebrate: we had a victory in a war to extol, having brought a new nation into existence; we had altered the geography so that history promised to be more readable; we had liberated our brethren across the border, so our geopolitical clout was at its apogee. My school was determined to be at the forefront of the festivities. Our teachers planned an exciting agenda to kickstart their celebration a day in advance. It was Monday, August 14th, 1972. A sumptuous mutton feast was deemed fit for such a memorable occasion. After all, Indian villages have always applauded the joys of indulgence, and here was an event infused with patriotic fervour.

However, when the moment came to invite students to the party, our teachers kept it modest. Reason: they had neither the ability nor inclination to fund the non-paying students. But they had a special criterion for my case: I would be with my teachers; as the Head Boy, it was my privilege!

Thus, a curtain-raiser would make August 14^th, 1972, memorable, and I was the only lucky boy chosen to witness our teachers enjoying themselves. There must be one to overhear all their conversations and run their errands. It was my sacred duty to do all that and more.

‘Where’s the butcher, the crook?’ yelled Mr Devkumar, our mathematics teacher. He was addressing no one, yet he was vigorously stabbing the air with his straight index finger.

I stood, feasting my eyes on Mr Devkumar, who was in trouble. He was the cruellest in the brood of tormentors that infested my school under the guise of teachers. Less sure of his geometry knowledge than his marksmanship, he could accurately aim at the head of anyone sitting on the backbench. Once, while punishing a boy at the corner of the rear row, he was so deadly accurate in his aim and so measured in his force that the wooden duster he hurled uprooted a few strands of the boy’s hair exactly along the parting, leaving a deep cut on his scalp. His frail body had no blood to ooze, but he shed copious tears. For a long while, the successful teacher revelled in his self-congratulatory mood.

Fortunately, Mr Devkumar’s attitude towards girls was different. He was occasionally critical of them but refrained from using physical punishment for their mistakes. All the boys recognised Mr Devkumar’s biased behaviour, but the tradition of unquestioned respect for teachers worked in his favour. No wonder this attitude, combined with his tendency to award generous scores to his female students, made him a favourite among the girls.

It was already afternoon, yet there was still no message from the butcher.

‘Now who can kill the beast?’ blabbered Mr Devkumar. Following him, the goat bleated mein…he..he. He was tethered to the wooden pole near the veranda.

That was a tiny little black goat with white patches. The trusted butcher would be his companion on the perilous final leg of his lacerating journey. Only the professional knew how to administer the last pain—the least pain. Who else could accomplish it with such compassion?

My puzzled teacher turned to me. ‘Hey, aren’t you from the lower caste?’

Logic first: the conscientious teacher's rhetorical question made it clear. That I was a tall, scrawny boy from a low caste was a reason enough, so I must butcher a goat!

‘Go and kill the goat. And don’t you dare act funny, you hear?’ Mr Devkumar handed me the leash. His tone conveyed a command of finality.

An eleven-year-old could deftly kill a goat, so why should I fret? I thought. The would-be victim was no man, so it was no sin! And it was far safer to move with the beast than to stay with Devkumar. Moreover, I got an adult job! Giving pain should be better than receiving it, so I began to prepare myself.

But how to kill him? The largest creature I had ever killed was a minnow in our backyard pond, and that, too, inadvertently while washing clothes.

As a vegetarian by choice, my hands felt too clumsy for the gruesome task of killing the dinky little goat. First, I contemplated twisting its head, a method akin to detaching a carrot's leaves in one swift motion. The other method could be to decapitate. I recalled from my history book that kings would merrily behead their vanquished foes in the past. The exciting duel between Lord Rama and the ten-headed demon king Ravana came to mind, with the latter’s detached heads bouncing back to their respective slots! Thanks to the favour shown by a known government field publicity staff, I witnessed the spectacle in Sampoorna Ramayana—the only film I had ever watched in my life. A whirring movie projector screened the black-and-white film on a grazing field. It had imparted an essential skill to me that I could apply now. So, decapitating a goat was like killing Ravana, which would be further likened to detaching leaves from a carrot!

The evening was about an hour away. The August afternoon sun had yet to shed its harshness. I kept plodding across a damp grass field, following the goat. The beast was sure-footed as though he were going homeward.

A voice echoed inside me: ‘Oh boy, the animal processor! Now, you must wind up. The goat has four feet and two horns, but you’re a biped. So, forget your pipe dream of zapping the beast the Ravana way.’

A sense of urgency so heightened that I could hardly look at the goat with condescension. Like a devil, he had a pair of pointed horns. Nay, a sumo wrestler was daring me to defeat him. ‘Wham,’ diving accurately, I landed myself on the animal.

‘Mein he-he,’ the goat did not anticipate an ambush from behind! He had trusted me to take him home, but what sort of action was this? It was disgraceful, a cowardly act!

The intense, funky odour of the beast ignited a predator’s resolve within me. Soon, I found myself on my knees. It was essential to pin the beast to the ground. So, I lay prone on him, my legs splayed out and elbows pressed against his ribs. Then I slowly insinuated my hands around his neck, still resting my elbows on the ground. Next, I gripped his left horn with my left hand while my right hand was firmly on his snout. I was a mere biped, grappling with a quadruped that had begun to twitch vigorously. It became evident that my body weight was negligible compared to my rival’s tenacity. Yet I put in my best effort, and before he could shake me off, I had already twisted his head a full round.

The beast ran away from me. However, he had ceased bleating—perhaps his vocal cords had fallen apart. He was not running straight but moving sideways.

I closed the gap between us and began to stoop low. A dinky little goat weighing six kilos should not beat me. I must grab hold of the truant unless I happen to fall into a ditch!

A ditch? Oh no, there was one. The electricity staff had left a ten-foot-deep pit. Before they had time to erect the pole, the monsoon had made its presence felt. Neither a fence nor a signpost warned us about the excavation site. So, we were heading for a fall into the pit.

Once inside the pit, our game of chase ended inconclusively. Now the priority has shifted: I must escape quickly, but how? Climbing the wall was not an option, as it was steep and moss-covered, offering no footholds. The darkness was rapidly closing in. I felt drowsy and longed for the comfort of home. My only hope was that my teachers would come looking for me. They would not allow me to escape with the goat, the principal recipe of their jubilee feast!

Soon, I heard people talking. Was it a phantom voice? I wondered.

The cloud overhead had cleared, letting the stars shine. I stifled a yawn while the twitching goat reminded me to finish the task. Now that the beast was immobile, he could be killed easily. But I dithered the next moment; it was time to think out of the box and escape. The beast could wait for its due; I would deal with him once we were out of the ditch.

My elbow got bruised as I hit the bottom of the pit. It began to hurt now. Thanks to the loamy soil, it was not a bad fall, yet it still demanded care. So, I stroked around it—a therapy Mr Devkumar had taught us. Though famished, I felt my thirst more intensely than my hunger. How about drinking from the pit? Oh no, it reeked, for the goat had peed there. Drinking my rival’s pee was detestable, even if my thirst was terrible! The moment justified a cry, but the option was not open to the Head Boy.

The goat began to emit a feeble bleat, its pitch rising in shrillness with each attempt. Soon, I heard footfalls and looked up. Someone was peering around the pit! Hope surged through my spine. Perhaps my moment of distress was coming to an end.

‘Head Boy, are you there?’ It was Mr Devkumar’s booming voice. I tried to visualise what the upcoming punishment might be like. Soon, he repeated his call but with a fury vastly amplified. ‘Are you there, Head Boy?’ To give the devil his due, Devkumar was never semantically incorrect. He despised uttering a plebeian word, come what may.

Then, a light flashed on us.

‘Why the hell are you hiding? Come and take your mind-massaging slaps,’ he bellowed.

The rescue team had come equipped with a rope, a ladder, and a bamboo. Strangely, they could correctly imagine that we had fallen into an electrical ditch. Indeed, my teachers were all-knowing godmen!

Finally, I was out of the ditch, but not out of distress. The goat gladly went to the butcher as if he remembered his brief. He hated purposeless conviviality. However, I had no faculty of a goat to speculate what may lay ahead.

Come-follow-me was Mr Devkumar's cryptic command, and I followed him. After a few steps, the butcher took a detour towards the clump of brambles while we continued to trudge forward. Mein…he…he—the goat bleated only for one last time. The silence that followed was eloquent. I realised what that poignant bleat meant; it was as if my bosom friend was bidding me a final goodbye. His suffering was over; his six-kilo body would take abuse no more. As for me, I began to imagine the abominable—the swish of a cane, its stinging thumps on my back and bum, the sarcastic words about my birth, my caste, and so on.

‘Look here, Head Boy!’ Mr Devkumar bellowed.

God, could there be a limit to discipline? I grimaced. Everything was possible because the perpetrator was my mathematics teacher, Mr Devkumar. The plate in his left hand held cuts of raw meat, each with patches of white fat. I could see the shrunken version of the dinky goat on it.

‘Eat this, Head Boy. Here is your reward for the entertaining pranks you played this evening. Munch it.’ Mr Devkumar was smirking.

My reluctance enraged him into using his cane. First, the strokes were excruciating, as if my teacher had resolved to finish his chores before he enjoyed his feast. Then he came closer, keeping the cane beneath his left armpit. Now, his right hand was free to stroke my back. He did so ardently, with a smirk on his lips that soon puckered into a rosebud. Then he retrieved the cane and began beating me again.

‘Eat, Head Boy, eat your share,’ Mr Devkumar held the plate near my nose.

As his cane swished, his anger became evident from the stiffness of his facial muscles. He was angry and gleeful with an underlying sense of schadenfreude—a lethal combination. Before long, I realised that the determined teacher would not leave me alone unless…

So, I, the Head Boy, devoured the raw pieces of meat without masticating.

Ah! Impossible is nothing! Mr Devkumar was far too pleased to see my, nay, his success. ‘Bravo, Head Boy, bravo,’ he went delirious, dancing and singing.

The spicy aroma of mutton curry wafted up from the makeshift kitchen. The bamboo frames protruding from the thatched roof of our school were visible in the waxing crescent moon, resembling the ribs of the anaemic village beggar. Tomorrow would mark the Silver Jubilee celebration of our Independence.

***      ***      ***      ***

Ah! What a story! After finishing his account, Aarohan fell silent. He remained seated in the lotus position, with his eyes closed and his spine straight, as if he were meditating deeply. Mayank feared Aarohan might relapse into unhealthy silence, yet refrained from disturbing him.

What was Mayank’s takeaway from Aarohan’s dream? He would be happy to solve the mystery surrounding Aarohan’s appearance at Valparai, but the dream provided no clues. All he revealed contradicted reality. Aarohan claimed he was in high school in 1972, but, in fact, he was born that year. He said he had low-caste origins; however, he was the son of a captain from a family whose ancestors were feudal lords in Odisha. About eighty years ago, a branch of that family migrated to Visakhapatnam, and their first act on arrival was to buy land. They were so obsessed with land that they even purchased small hillocks. People believed they had stumbled upon a hidden treasure on their property. They flaunted their wealth by serving tea to European guests, brewed over sandalwood fires. Aarohan’s ancestral house had sandalwood doors, and their gods, made of eight jewels, moved on a golden palanquin. Even their toothpicks were of gold! A dream should turn a pauper into a prince, yet in this dream, a prince becomes a pauper! How strange!

A thought crossed Mayank’s mind—perhaps Aarohan’s tales belonged to a world that could not be reached with open eyes, but only by closing them. Folklore often holds that the greatest seers are blind, for they do not see through sight, but through inner vision. Only when the eyes are shut to this visible world does the inward eye open—the one capable of perceiving truths, sensations, and energies. Unseduced by form and illusion, such visionaries are therefore believed to speak with greater authenticity.

Here, blindness is not a weakness but a sacrifice—the price one pays to attain finer perception. These blind dream-seers stand on the very edge of existence, poised between this world and the beyond, wakefulness and dream, reality and imagination. Perhaps that is why Aarohan, too, gains access to the hidden treasure of an untold story only in that darkness—when he closes his eyes and withdraws from the world.

Mayank reflected further: if this idea were applied to Aarohan, vision could be likened to memory. Just as a sightless person reaches inward insight, one submerged in forgetting may step into an entirely new terrain of experience. Memory is a repetition of the past, but the absence of memory becomes a blank canvas—open to imagination, sensation, and cultural consciousness.

Luckily, Aarohan did not slip into a grumpy mood. When it was time to say goodnight, Mayank proposed, ‘How about taking a stroll in the morning, Aarohan, if you fancy?’

‘Fine,’ gladly replied Aarohan, adding, ‘I won’t mind.’

------------------------------------

By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar, 01/01/2026

-----------------------------------------