“What’s the time?” I asked the girl sitting behind me who had a watch.

“Ten thirty.” She replied.

Man, thirty minutes of tolerance and a very difficult test of patience. I wondered if teachers know they are boring their students to near-death and if they don’t it would be nothing short of a miracle. If they do, then I think they must be in dire need of money. Why didn’t they just pack up their dog-eared textbooks, pack up their expensive-looking leather bags and leave? Do they feel as bored as we students do?

Some student was reading. English was one of my favorite subjects but school ruined even that. The teacher would always enter the class and spend fifteen minutes asking everyone what she ‘taught in the previous class. As for her explanation, she would merely read a line twice from the textbook. To irritate us even more, she would ask questions and answer them herself. Then ask her pet to read the chapter again. How on earth is that even teaching, pray to tell me? When we go home and mention this to our parents, they would probably think that we are to blame; that we aren’t interested.

Suddenly, the speakers blared. “All Secondary teachers, please report to the library.” Finally, hopes were fulfilled, dreams were answered and students were saved from an excruciating death. The teacher excused herself and acted as if she was the one specially called to the library to meet the Prime Minister. I silently rolled my eyes. As soon as her figure disappeared down the stairs, a boy took position near the door. All of us were like caged animals set free. A group of boys started playing with a ball which they had magicked from somewhere. Most of us complained for the umpteenth time about our woes and throes. Everyone was chattering and playing and complaining and laughing and teasing and joking and chuckling and fighting and singing and talking. A loud crash sounded from nearby. It was as if someone had pressed the pause button or something for all action ceased at once.

Cries of “What did you do!” filled the air and the world plunged into furor once more. The window was broken and the ball was fallen on the other side of it, beyond the grille. It was the evidence of their crime. One of them tried to retrieve the ball by a 30cm scale but all it did was push the ball further away. Everyone was figuring out what to do when somebody suggested that they’d better cover the ball with something. It turned out that one of them had a rough cloth that they had used in Art Period. So, the cloth was placed on the ball to make it unobtrusive. However, that still left the question of the broken window. The same strategy was applied and the curtains were drawn.

A shout of warning came from the door. The teacher was coming. Everyone scrambled to get to their seats. The teacher entered and her eyes, like a crime detector, went straight to the windows.

“Why have you drawn the curtains? Gaurav, open them.”

The boy sitting nearest to the window, the broken one, looked like a fish out of water. He could have rivaled Snow White as he was so pale.

“But Ma’am, I am feeling cold.” It was the middle of Summer and it was 40 degrees outside.

“What? Do you have a fever? Go to the nurse, then.” Seizing the opportunity, the boy did as he was told.

“Okay then, Saanvi, open the curtains.” She ordered.

“But Ma’am, it causes a glare so I can’t see the Board.” It was a creative excuse but there was nothing written on the board, unfortunately.

This was pointed out by the teacher. Finally, she decided to open the curtains herself. There was a pin-drop silence and each minute was filled with anticipation. The boys were looking at each other, guilty looks hoping for exoneration that was most unlikely. I was just glad that something exciting would finally happen. It sounds self-centered and probably is, but honestly, if you had been in her class, you would have wished the same.

The curtains came apart and the play began. The teacher thundered, in a way only old ladies with years of experience in browning off students would thunder, “What is this?”

A boy, who was complicit in the ‘crime’, stood up. He had guts, I would give him that.

“Ma’am, the window was already broken.” Nobody contradicted him.

“Then why is there a ball here?” She said, with narrowed eyes.

“A ball?” The boy blinked. He would make a great actor, I thought.

Apparently, the cloth must have blown away with the wind. We were in hot water.

Then she started shouting about who broke the window, how she would call everyone’s parents (as if she had that much time) and Principal Ma’am herself (I doubt she had much sway with anyone in the school, much less the Principal). The lecture went off for about fifteen minutes. She asked someone to bring the class teacher. There was a whole ruckus about it and since a lot of time was being wasted, nobody said anything. We were all friends and nobody would betray anyone that easily. Furthermore, teachers were our common enemies. They threatened us that if we didn’t tell who broke the window, all of us would be expelled.

A few days later a Parent-Teacher Interaction was scheduled but it had no relation to the aforementioned incident. It was already decided beforehand.

“Ma’am, you have to pay thousand rupees.” The teacher said to my mother.

“For what, may I ask?” My mother asked, naturally.

“Your daughter and some other students broke a window. I was really shocked, really, Ma’am. Your daughter is really exemplary and I will not mind at all, since she’s usually so obedient.” The teacher was literally a knife laced with honey. I was one of the most obedient students and also, I didn’t have anything to do with the window. But if I told her that I had not broken the window, that would imply that I knew who did break the window. If I didn’t say anything, that would mean that I accepted what she said about me. The only way out was to somehow convince my mother not to pay the dang thousand rupees.

However, my parents were the most inexorable ones on earth. They believed that teachers are descendants of Gods. My mother took out her purse and placed the thousand rupees on the table. It was terrible to watch but mostly, it was one of the most mortifying moments of my life. My mother was staring daggers at me and the teacher wore a satisfied smirk on her face. I felt like punching her. All the while, I was thinking, ‘Why me?’

And that is only one of the incidents engendering my hate towards that infernal school. A month later and the window’s still broken and we continue living our boring lives.